Avalanche Gulch — Page 2

Mount Shasta - Bunny Flat

Bunny Flat Adventures

  1. Reflections
  2. Bunny Flat Adventures
  3. Headlamps in the Dark
  4. Lake Helen at Dawn
  5. Meltdown
  6. Beneath the Red Banks
  7. To the Summit
  8. 7000' of Skiing

Having been twice turned back by poor weather on Mount Shasta, I was especially eager this year to return and try again. This time, I hoped to do the whole climb in a single day.

My ambitious plan was to beginning my ascent from the Bunny Flat parking lot at midnight. Since I had been up the route only two weeks earlier, I knew I'd be able to find my way to the snow. Hopefully, the only challenge I'd face this time would be my own limits—not high winds or storms.

Mount Shasta: Bunny Flat Trailhead

Sunset

Bunny Flat and Avalanche Gulch

On the Trail at 12:45 a.m.

Mt. Shasta - Into the Woods

Into the Woods

When he was in college, my father used to drive all night to see my mother.

Hearing of these stories, I always thought dad was crazy, but here I am driving as far or worse to see an icy mistress who has twice rebuffed my advances.

After 590 miles on the road, I arrive in the town of Mount Shasta just before sunset. Road-weary, I stop for a quick dinner, then drive up to Bunny Flat.

At the Bunny Flat parking lot, would-be climbers quickly discover there's no such thing as going solo on Shasta's Avalanche Gulch.

The parking lot is crammed with cars and people. For those who are used to solitary sojourns in the wilderness, this will be a very different experience.

The human activity thankfully fades after sunset, and I try to grab a few hours' sleep in my car. Surprisingly, with a pillow and blanket I'm quite cozy in the back of my Civic.

A few car-loads of beer-inspired teens drive up from town to make some noise, but Karma won't allow me to complain.

Unfortunately, my car is also contributing to my insomnia: making a maddening ha-ha humming sound every two minutes. What can it possibly be? I position myself in various strategic locations, trying to locate the source of the sound—and KILL IT. When that fails, I do my best to ignore the sound, but its regularity—every ninety seconds or so—makes that impossible. I cut my thumb badly while rooting through the trunk for the source of it.

This is not a promising omen for a mountain climb. With brute force unsuccessful, I lie back down in my car, trying to deduce the source of the noise. And, at long last, just before it is time to begin the climb, I figure it out: some abominably conceived fuel tank vent that activates intermently.

Midnight. My alarm goes off, though I can't say it wakes me. I put boards on pack and ski boots on feet and begin hiking up. The switch on my headlamp chooses this moment to malfunction. The light flickers and strobes, providing a feeble glow that barely reaches my fingertips. My ski boots Ka-THUNK again and again against rocks I can't see, trying to trip me.

Into the woods I go, and now I'm really missing a working headlamp. I do my best to follow the trail, but it's just too dark to see anything. Surprisingly, for this portion of the hike I am absolutely alone, just me and the monsters circling me in the darkness. A rustling noise coming from the woods nearby makes my heart jump.

I wield a ski pole menacingly in defense, but of course I can't see anything. Just blackness.

Onward. The air is very warm, and I must peel off clothing already. The trail—if I'm actually on it—seems to keep traversing west, instead of heading up the mountain. Shasta's outline has long since vanished behind thickening trees. Backtracking becomes the game of the moment. I'm frustrated with the forest, the trail, the dark, feel like I'm stumbling around in circles, burning precious time.

next: Headlamps in the Dark